


the story of what the night is thinking

by lupinely



Category: Cowboy Bebop
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:35:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11127972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lupinely/pseuds/lupinely
Summary: When Spike first hitches a ride on theBebop,both he and Jet know that he probably won't stay for long.





	the story of what the night is thinking

 

 

 

Jet sees Spike naked before he ever sees him drunk. When Jet agreed to let Spike hitch a ride on his ship, he had meant it only literally, and never expected to have sex with him. It’s just that Spike, for all that he is close-lipped about himself and his history, defies obscurity, defies unfamiliarity: he never remains on the edges of anything, let alone Jet’s previously uneventful life. He carves out a space for himself on Jet’s ship, in Jet’s thoughts, in Jet’s everyday routine, and then soon enough he makes a space for himself in Jet’s bed, too. Jet’s not complaining, not exactly—but when he looks over at Spike, naked, smoking a cigarette and sliding his free hand absently over Jet’s thigh, Jet can’t help but think it’s a little strange that this is the order in which their relationship, if it can be called that, has progressed.

Spike sees Jet watching him, and he stubs out the cigarette. He slides his hand up Jet’s thigh. “See something you like?”

“Not sure,” Jet says. “I might need another go at it to decide.”

Spike rolls over onto Jet and kisses him, and there isn’t much talking between them after that. That’s just sort of how it is with Spike. There is something familiar about him, comfortable, recognizable—and something incomprehensible, too, something that cannot be grasped or perceived, that continues to elude Jet even after all this time. Something that Jet thinks, if he could just understand it, would break down this last barrier between the two of them. But he knows better than to hope that he will ever understand it. Spike has never said anything about how long he intends to stay on the _Bebop_ , and Jet has never expected him to stay for more than a few months; indeed, the very idea of it seems contrary to everything he does know about Spike.

They make enough money right now to do better than just get by. The _Bebop_ is less lonely and somber with another person on it, and Spike is an easy enough person to work with when he isn’t doing something incredibly stupid. And more nights than not, they fuck each other into the mattress until they are both exhausted, and Jet sleeps better than he has in years.

Not Spike, though. Jet often catches him slipping out of the room to prowl the ship in silence, to smoke a cigarette, to slouch in the pilot’s chair and watch the stars slide by. Jet lets him do it. How would he stop him? Neither of them is responsible for the other in any way except when they’re on the hunt for a bounty. The rest of the time they are two individuals, two near strangers, who happen to live on the same spaceship and who occasionally—more than occasionally—have sex with each other.

The problem is, of course, that Jet goes and gets attached to Spike in a manner of weeks. It happens before they start having sex, but Jet doesn’t realize it until after. One night Jet is looking down at Spike, who is sleeping peacefully for once, and he reaches out and brushes Spike’s hair back from his forehead, real gentle.

Fuck, Jet thinks, when he realizes what he’s done, that he’s staring. If there is anything that Jet Black knows, it is that people leave. That’s why he has always held on to everything so hard—held on and never let go. But sometimes it doesn’t matter whether you let go or not. Some things are just going to end anyway.

And Jet—thirty-six, retired, sick of life in regular society and all too happy, thank you, to spend the rest of his life on the _Bebop,_ whether alone or not—knows better than to try and hold on to this. Enjoy it while it lasts, he tells himself: but he has never been very good, at that.

 

 

 

“Here.” Spike slides the shot glass across the table towards Jet. Some of the vodka spills over the edge before Jet can steady the glass and bring it to his mouth. His face feels warm, he is pleasantly buzzed—and as he looks at Spike he notices several things at once. Namely that Spike is rather red-faced, and his eyes very bright, and the vodka bottle on the table next to them is emptier than Jet was expecting. Spike keeps sliding his tongue over his bottom lip, once, twice—he flicks his gaze to Jet—then a third time.

Spike is drunk.

Jet wonders what this will be like. Will Spike just get quieter than usual, as Jet tends to do when he’s drunk—or will he get loud, get competitive, get stupid? Jet has seen a lot of drunk people do a lot of stupid things; he’s kind of looking forward to seeing what kind of stuff an inebriated Spike might get up to. Under Jet’s supervision, of course....

But Spike surprises Jet, and doesn’t become any of those things. He pours another shot and looks at Jet’s empty glass. “You want one?”

Jet slides the glass towards him, and Spike fills it. “Maybe this should be your last one,” he says to Spike.

“Maybe.” Spike tilts his head back, the shot glass held to his mouth, and Jet watches the slide of his neck in the poor ship lighting, the way Spike closes his eyes and his eyelashes bruise shadows against his cheekbones.

Jet swallows, hard, and then downs his own shot before Spike can see him staring.

“Another?”

Jet shakes his head, then slides the vodka bottle out of Spike’s reach before he can pour another shot for himself.

“Hey, man,” Spike says. “I paid for that fair and square. You can’t keep me from drinking it.”

“No,” agrees Jet, screwing the cap back on the bottle and getting up to stow it in the fridge; “but hopefully your common sense will, by the time I get it out of your line of sight.”

Spike snorts. “I don’t think anyone has ever trusted me to rely on my common sense before.”

“First time for everything.” Jet closes the fridge and, when he straightens up, realizes that he is more tipsy than he thought—maybe even properly drunk. Jet has had enough hangovers in his life that the novelty of drinking excessively has somewhat worn off, and it’s been a while since he’s been drunk, that’s for sure.

Two hands, Spike’s hands, slide over Jet’s shoulders from behind, then down his chest. His touch is warm, enticing, and Jet is more intrigued by it than he wants to let on. Before Jet can react, Spike sighs and puts his head on Jet’s shoulder, nuzzles close to him, and starts kissing along Jet’s jaw.

For a moment Jet can’t move. Oh my God, he thinks; Spike is an _affectionate_ drunk.

It makes Jet’s heart hurt, a little bit, for reasons that he can’t quite explain. Maybe it’s the thought of all this affection, all this tactile touch-hunger, that Spike keeps hidden the rest of the time—that he apparently doesn’t want anyone to see. Jet lets himself relax a little bit into Spike’s backwards embrace. He’s not about to have sex with Spike while he’s drunk, but he can enjoy the sudden and welcome handsiness for a bit, he thinks.

Spike nips at Jet’s earlobe. “How you gonna make this up to me?”

“Make what up to you?”

“Confiscating my vodka.” Spike rubs one thumb over Jet’s nipple, through the fabric of his jumpsuit, and Jet can feel the whole long warm press of Spike’s body against his back. “I can think of a few things you could do.”

“Yeah?” Jet has to bite back the sound that tries to escape his throat when Spike scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin of Jet’s neck. “Like what?”

“You could make me dinner,” Spike says, “I’m starving,” and Jet bursts out laughing.

“Not what I was expecting, I admit. But let’s see what I can do.”

Spike kisses Jet’s neck one more time before letting him go. “You have a dirty mind, big guy.”

“Don’t see how I couldn’t, with you forcing yourself on me like that,” Jet says, casually, and he watches the blush spread across Spike’s face, slow and lovely, that Spike tries to pretend is not there.

Jet goes to the small kitchen, and after a moment Spike follows. Jet pokes around at their meager food supplies and hopes that he’s not drunk enough to fuck something up in here. He’s pretty sure he can manage. As Jet starts getting out the supplies, Spike slides into the small space, puts his arms around Jet from behind again, and hooks his hands into Jet’s pockets, resting his chin on Jet’s shoulder and watching him work.

Jet chuckles. “You’re getting in my way, you know.”

“Mm-hm.”

Jet can feel the rumble of Spike’s voice against his neck. He swallows, focuses on assembling the sandwiches. Something quick and easy, to make Spike happy.

Apparently not quick enough, though. Spike slips one knee between Jet’s legs and pushes him up against the counter, idly, like he is hardly even paying attention to what he’s doing. The breath goes out of Jet a little bit. “Do you want me to make you this or not?” he asks, rather snappishly.

“Yeah.” Spike’s breath is hot at the nape of Jet’s neck, and Jet closes his eyes for a moment. Then he keeps working, but Spike slowly draws his hands out of Jet’s pockets and presses them hard against Jet’s hipbones, pulling Jet’s ass right against Spike’s body, and Spike touches the tip of his tongue to place where Jet’s neck meets his shoulder as he does so.

“All right,” Jet says, feeling flushed himself now. He sets down what he’s holding and turns so that he is facing Spike, who looks—fucking gorgeous, really, his mouth wet, his face still pink. “Come here.”

He drags Spike out into the hallway and pushes him against the wall. “Is this what you really want?” he asks Spike, and he doesn’t wait for an answer—he kisses him, fiercely, turned on and amazed by this person whom he is just beginning to get to know, this person who is so many things that Jet would never expect, this person with his hands all over Jet, groping him, pulling him close, holding tight, like he—

Like he won’t let go.

Jet distracts himself from that thought by sliding his tongue over Spike’s bottom lip and hearing Spike groan in response. Spike has his hands firmly gripping Jet’s ass, and Jet runs his hands over Spike’s shoulders, his stomach, then tugs one through Spike’s hair. Spike nips at Jet’s lip and brings his hands to either side of Jet’s face, pulling him close, kissing him like he’s never kissed Jet before, kissing the breath right out of him. Jet kisses him as fervently back, like he’s trying to prove something. Like he’s trying to show Spike that he likes this side of him—that he doesn’t have to hide this from Jet, not anything—

Jet doesn’t know how long they kiss, only that it is a while. He hasn’t made out with someone like this in a long time. He hopes he’ll get to do it again.

After a while, the manner of Spike’s kissing shifts slightly: towards something slower, more sensuous, and his hands drift lower on Jet’s body. But Jet hasn’t forgotten that they’re both drunk, Spike drunker, and besides—there’s still those sandwiches in the kitchen for them to eat. So he pulls away from where he has kissed a dark bruise onto Spike’s neck and kisses his mouth again, before stepping back. The rush of cold air between their bodies is a sudden shock.

“I should finish those sandwiches,” he says.

Spike stares at him, slowly blinking, recovering himself: his hair mussed, his mouth red and swollen, and his eyes shining bright in the dark. He watches Jet reenter the kitchen, and then he reaches up to touch the bruise on his neck with the tips of his fingers, just for a moment, between breaths.

 

 

 

Something is different between them after that. Jet does not know what it is, and Spike is hardly forthcoming on the matter. They don’t have sex that night, and they don’t during the few days that follow, either—which wouldn’t bother Jet except that their arrangement seems to have changed because something is bothering Spike. Jet is more concerned than he is willing to let on, but also acutely aware that it’s not his place to ask Spike what’s wrong—aware that he cares more about Spike, as far as he can tell, than Spike does about him, and therefore Spike probably won’t respond agreeably to any prying questions that Jet might want to ask.

So Jet doesn’t ask, and he gives Spike space. There’s plenty to be had, on the _Bebop._ After a couple of days where they barely speak to each other, things feel like they did before Spike ever set foot onboard this ship: like it’s just Jet and the _Bebop_ again, and no one else. Finally Jet pitches Spike a bounty suggestion, since they need to eat; and Spike agrees, and the two of them fly to Mars where the bounty is supposed to be currently hiding.

Spike seems jumpy as soon as they arrive. They have never traveled to Mars together, and Jet knows that this is where Spike grew up—that’s all that he knows about Spike’s past at all, really. And it doesn’t particularly seem like Spike is all that happy to be back. He turns the collar of his jacket up, as if he thinks that hiding his face, when he’s got all that recognizable hair, will do him any good to keep from being noticed.

They’re doing recon in Alba City, and as far as Jet can tell, no one is giving them any funny looks, nor even paying them much attention. He glances at Spike. “You all right?”

Spike’s gaze snaps from the group of passersby he’d been watching to Jet’s face. Jet immediately recognizes the look in his eye: the same indecipherable expression he’d worn after Jet kissed him and then went to finish making sandwiches.

“Does it matter?” Spike asks. His tone is cool, clearly telling Jet to mind his own business. “I’ll catch this guy, and you’ll get your money.” His attitude clearly adds: _and that’s all that matters, between the two of us: business._

Jet holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, says nothing, even though he has to bite his own lip to keep silent. Whatever Spike’s problem, then, let him keep it.

They do catch the guy, fairly quickly and without any complications. As soon as they get their money, Spike takes his share and splits. Says that he’s heading off to some bar he knows, and he’ll be back later before the _Bebop_ takes off. Jet lets him go. There’s really nothing else he can do about it—and he might as well get used to being alone again, apparently, since Spike seems likely to leave altogether any day now.

 

 

 

But Spike comes back earlier than Jet expected. It’s just a little past midnight, and Jet knows the Martian nightlife can and generally does last until the sun comes up, shining thin and clear in the orange dusty sky—brighter, though, than it ever was on Ganymede where Jet spent the first half of his life. It still takes some getting used to, sometimes: seeing the sun rising bright and thick over a horizon, not cool and distant.

Rather like what seeing Spike return to the _Bebop_ feels like right now: disrupting a pattern that Jet never even thought to question. Spike may have been drinking, but he’s not drunk; in fact, he seems quite sober, his jacket drawn tight around himself. When he walks into the _Bebop’s_ living room where Jet has been sitting up and going through his notes on the latest ship repairs, his gaze seeks Jet out right away, like he has been really wanting to see him.

“Hey.” Jet is surprised by Spike’s sudden appearance into speaking. “I wasn’t expecting you this early.”

Spike doesn’t say anything, maybe shrugs. He crosses the room towards Jet, who stands because he can feel that something is about to happen, and he is not sure what. It makes him nervous. Maybe Spike has come to pack up his things, or something, and—

But before Jet can think anymore about that, Spike draws close to him and tilts his head, just a little bit, as he looks at Jet’s mouth. And then Spike’s hands close over Jet’s hips, tug him close, and Spike kisses him, quite purposefully. Jet does not react at first—still uncertain what the hell is going on—but Spike keeps kissing him, and sliding his hands over Jet’s lower back, and so Jet puts his arms around him, because how can he not? Because he hadn’t been expecting Spike, he is only in a t-shirt and boxers; and so to be standing here kissing a fully-dressed Spike is a little strange, though perhaps no stranger than any other interaction he’s had with him. With this inscrutable, gorgeous, infuriating person.

Spike’s hands slip under Jet’s shirt to touch skin. Jet reacts to this more obviously than he would like, drawing in a breath. He can feel Spike smile.

“Your bed or mine?” Spike asks.

“Spike—” Jet tries to say, but he’s not even sure what to ask. Are you okay? That would be a start; but he knows, even now, that he can’t ask it.

Spike puts his palm against the front of Jet’s boxers, presses roughly. “C’mon,” he says; and there is a vulnerability to his voice, at last, that Jet can recognize, can begin to understand. Something desperate and sad and frightened and a little pleading, too. But it tells Jet that Spike does want this, right now; that he is not trying to do this to numb anything else; that he’s okay, at least for this.

Jet kisses Spike again, leans into him. “My bed,” he says. “It’s closer.”

Spike hums his agreement and drags him there. When they are in Jet’s room, Spike quickly starts divesting himself of his clothes, without ceremony. When he sees Jet watching him, he nods at Jet’s shirt and boxers. “You too.”

Jet takes off his t-shirt, thinking that he would rather watch Spike. Soon they are both naked, and looking at each other with a few feet of space separating them, and Jet feels both ridiculous and self-conscious, because Spike’s gaze on him is as purposeful as it was before, and it seems to Jet that he can see all the things that Spike wants to do to him right now in his eyes.

Spike meets Jet’s gaze and smiles at him. It’s this smile that finally puts Jet fully at ease. “What do you want?” Spike asks, with a little bit of a lewd tilt to his mouth, like he’s daring Jet to say something that will shock him.

Jet means to say “Whatever,” because he really isn’t picky. But what he ends up saying is “Anything,” and the way Spike reacts to that draws the breath from Jet’s lungs more sharply than Spike’s kiss had done: Spike’s mouth opens, just a bit, and he draws in a breath—and his expression changes, from that semi-leering façade to something defenseless, something blinking and wide-eyed and pink-faced, something no longer hot with longing but warm, now, with affection.

Spike closes the distance between them before Jet can question what he has seen. He puts his arms around Jet’s shoulder and kisses him, and when they are kissing Spike nudges Jet backwards until his knees hit the bed and he sits. Spike puts his knees on either side of Jet’s thighs and just keeps fucking kissing him. When they have sex it is just as good as it has been every other time, Spike’s hands moving roughly over Jet’s back, his fingertips digging between lines of muscle; he kisses Jet’s neck, keeps touching him all over, more than he’s ever tried to touch Jet before. Jet responds in kind, trying to keep up with Spike: trying to understand exactly what it is that Spike is trying to express, if he is trying to express anything, and give him a satisfactory answer. He thinks maybe he does a pretty good job—because by the end of it he has Spike panting, the color high in his face, his hair mussed, his mouth shining and open when he pulls Jet close to him and comes, trembling, murmuring something that Jet cannot hear.

Some time passes; Jet, coming down from his own orgasm, is not quite sure how much. He realizes after a little while, though, that Spike has levered himself out from underneath Jet’s outstretched arm and now sits on the edge of the bed, naked, holding a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other but not bothering to try and light it.

Jet watches him. The kiss mark he left on Spike’s neck the other night is still there, just barely visible. Looking at it, and the expression on Spike’s face, which is somewhat lost, and the cigarette dangling loosely between Spike’s fingers, Jet thinks, maybe, that he can finally ask.

He sits up, stretches a little: noting that way Spike’s gaze focuses and slides over to him as he does. He tilts his head and looks at Spike. Spike looks right back.

At last, Jet asks, “Are you all right?”

Spike’s mouth twitches, like he might want to smile. “Would you be pissed if you knew I went to that bar tonight to get laid?”

“No,” Jet says. Which is the truth. They haven’t talked at all about their arrangement and what it means, and so Jet has assumed that it doesn’t necessarily mean anything in particular. So he wouldn’t be pissed if Spike fucked someone else; he’d assumed, anyway, that that was what Spike was going to do tonight. But he might be jealous, a little; might wish the other guy were him.

“This guy was interested,” Spike says. “I could tell. We talked a little. Not much. You don’t need to talk much, really, when you’re at a bar for this reason. I was pretty sure I was gonna go home with him. I was only waiting for him to ask.”

Jet says nothing, watching Spike. Spike seems to realize that he is still holding the lighter and unlit cigarette, and he puts both on the bedside table, then doesn’t seem to know what to do with his empty hands.

“He asked,” Spike says. “And I realized I really, really didn’t want to sleep with this guy.” He looks up and meets Jet’s gaze. He hesitates, like he doesn’t want to say anything else, but then he does. “I only wanted you.”

Jet, his mouth dry, finds that he cannot speak.

Apparently galvanized by having admitted that, Spike keeps talking, a little faster now. “I thought, I want to go back to the _Bebop._ I want to see what Jet’s up to, and whether he wants to fuck me right now. And when I left that guy there in the bar, I kept thinking, what the hell is Jet gonna think about all this? It’s probably not what he thought he was signing up for when he agreed to let me hitch a ride on his ship.”

“No,” Jet says. “It wasn’t.”

Spike’s smile goes wry. “Yeah," he says, "I figured. I thought, there’s no way he’s gonna want to hear this. And I didn’t even know how to explain it to you. I don’t know how to explain it to myself.”

“We can figure it out,” Jet says, “if you want.”

Spike looks over at Jet. He is frowning a little, his eyebrows drawn close. He looks lost, still, and guarded, and Jet realizes that Spike doesn’t know—that he hasn’t realized, despite all this, how Jet feels about him. Spike thinks that he wants something that Jet doesn’t want to give.

Jet isn’t sure how to tell him without breaking this moment in a way that makes it shatter. So instead of saying anything, he leans in towards Spike: looks him in the eye for a moment, before putting his hand to the side of Spike’s face and rubbing his thumb over his cheekbone, gently. Spike blinks at him, his eyes still shining. Jet kisses him.

Spike leans into it, tilting his head, kissing back sweetly, like he is glad that he doesn’t have to talk anymore, doesn’t have to try and make sense out of something that maybe doesn’t _have_ to make sense. That can just be.

When Jet pulls away, Spike doesn’t say anything for a moment, or move. Then he picks up the cigarette he’d set aside and lights it. “I think,” Spike says, casually, “maybe I’ll stay on the _Bebop_ for longer than I thought. If that’s all right with you.”

He holds the cigarette out to Jet, who takes it. “You can stay as long as you like,” Jet says.

Now Spike does smile, warm and grateful. Jet watches him, and when he hands the cigarette back and brushes his fingers against Spike’s, he thinks: the universe can try as hard as it wants to take this from him. But he is never going to let it go.

 

 

 

 


End file.
